BOOK NEWS, POEMS, AND A NEW PAINTING

Finally, my new book, Life in the Body, will be published The Los Angeles Press. As a preview, I’m sharing another poem from the book. A new poem, “Primary Colors.” Stay tuned for more news about the book and a reading at Canio’s Books in Sag Harbor, NY and other venues. Hopefully on Zoom from Los Angeles too.

Primary Colors

Our recent journey remains a pulse,
a kind of brain tinnitus, insistent memory.
Visceral desire and satisfaction entwined.

It’s hot. We’re wearing big brim hats,
look like Americans in love
with bougainvillea and marigolds,
carpets and serapes, table runners,
woven flowers, birds, butterflies.
Multi-booth tent fair, crowded open lean-to shops,
silver jewelry, art and underwear, cafes
and quesadillas, guacamole and chocolate mole.

Painted onto hand hewn wooden whimsy,
chimeric puzzle beings: serpents
elephants and jaguars, cats and kittens,
spots and hues, stripes and marks.
Lucky eye charms for protection
look like they can see.
Folk art everywhere.
Structures from adobe to Baroque.

We negotiate broken sidewalks, holes and cracks
from years of tremors.
Mexico City feels like Paris.
Culture, art and architecture,
but strained, crumbling infrastructure.

Frida’s house, I’m in tears.
I stand in awe before her easel and paints,
her pain evoked in everything she made.
Her bed, a mirror hung above, for her
to witness crippled beauty and transform
her broken body into art.
Diego’s murals scattered through the house.
(Those two were a karmic pair, like us.)

The first day of our vacation
Putin’s troops marched into Ukraine.

We are never far away from
all the danger elsewhere.

Book news, Poems, and a New PaintinG

This July my new book, Life in the Body, will be published The Los Angeles Press. As a preview, I’m sharing two poems from the book. A new poem, “You See at 80,” inspired by a line borrowed from writer Carlos Castaneda that reflects on aging, and a favorite revisited, “Brief Passage,” that was inspired by the beauty of the East End. Stay tuned for more news about the book and a July reading at Canio’s Books in Sag Harbor, NY.

Plus, a new painting currently on view at the Springs Improvement Society’s 39th annual Members Art Show here in East Hampton at Ashawagh Hall from May 26-29, 2023.

YOU SEE AT 80

1.

Seat the truth of your death
on your shoulder,*
a beautiful, keen-eyed bird.
Choose your own colors, but
don’t attempt to kick her off.
Death won’t budge without you.

2.

It was fun to be a sexy girl.
Your acrobat body
could win a Limbo contest,
laugh and fuck, bite into an apple.
You danced the Twist until
your water broke a month too soon.

Then came that middle time
where time does not exist,
a blur, and when you finally searched for it,
you didn’t know where it went.
The babies grew to men.

3.

Subtle, imperceptible at first,
soft skin grows rough bumps.
Hairs where you don’t want them,
none where they once were.
You’ll never need bikini wax again.
You are two inches shorter.
But your ears have grown.

4.

Apply foundation,
cover brown spots.
Jane Fonda comes to mind.
And Dolly. Under the knife.
Still flaunting beauty.
Truth is, you don’t think
they look that great.
But then again…
Besides, they’re in the business
You wish you were in the business.
But you know better
than to heed that thought.

Change course.
Give up your PhD in mirror gazing.

You can’t turn back,
but you can turn around.

5.

Drift here, like time,
release the unwieldy oars
you’ve muscled against the tide.
Rowing upstream is getting old.
The current bends your image.
When you take a deeper look
you’re disappearing.

This ride may end in rapids,
or a soft mud bank. Hold on.
Let go.

6.

There is no rainbow’s end,
no point on the horizon to land.
Just life, a chance to witness
in amazement,
and very little left.
Get it right.

*Carlos Castaneda

BRIEF PASSAGE

A single cormorant, feathers spread,
lazes on dark ripples.
A blaze of red and aqua sunlight
bolts through clouds on the horizon.
Halyards ring out evening in the marina
as sailboats sway in wave-break at the jetty.
Geese fly currents above,
their shapely V dappling the light of moonrise.

I hear myself ask, no-one listening,
how many others have passed
time seated on this bench,
admiring the white windmill across the water,
blades blinking in dusk.

When my wings have flown me
through the portal that unlocks
death’s hidden prize,
will I become the breath of wind
or sister to a seagull perched on a pier?
Will I mingle with rainbow rays
to stir a lonely woman’s imagination
as sun sets on this bench, this bay, this beach,
thinking how fast light goes dark as daylight dims?

This cove, so quiet on peaceful days,
turbulent when weather whips the shore,
ebb and flow in rhythm with the moon,
will not remember
I spent this solitary moment
holding close its aching beauty.

My new painting, Letterbox is on view May 26-29, 2023 at the Springs Improvement Society’s 39th annual Members Art Show at Ashawagh Hall in East Hampton, NY.

Letterbox, Mixed Media on Canvas, 24 x 24”

A New Poem, A New Book, and Three New Paintings

The seasons are starting to change, which is always an inspiring and motivating time. I’ve been hard at work on multiple projects—editing my new book of poems, Life in the Body, organizing my archives, and, of course, creating new works of art.

Life in the Body will be published by the Los Angeles Press in June 2023. About Life in the Body, Doug Johnson Ph.D., editor of Cave Moon Press, says:

“Brenner offers echoes we can hear and watch in a pond; echoes in an intimate, generational diaspora.  Reading her lines draws you into a raw, well-lived life, honoring both her joy and her struggles. She waves us into a quiet room, letting us light candles to our own struggles. She waves us in to offer hope.  From grandma’s laughter to rock and roll lived in real time. From robin’s flirting behind her house to scarred teen-aged hearts.  This work offers powerful lines, beauty, and wisdom.”

Here is a new poem, an ode to change, and three new paintings.

CHANGE

There is no such thing as real
time real
space.

There is one
imagined moment
between birth and death:
a breath of air displaced
by the seeming presence of our bodies.

But these walls, this street we walk,
this fortress built so many years ago—

The mortised blocks
of history crumble
in the passage
of forgetting.

City Night Walk, Acrylic on Canvas, 24 x 24”

Graffiti Wall, Acrylic on Canvas, 36 x 36"

Man of Letters, Mixed Media on Paper, 38 x 26"


Three Poems in the New Issue of the Monterey Poetry Review

I'm thrilled to have three poems featured in the Fall 2022 issue of the Monterey Poetry Review, alongside the talented poet and friend Diane Frank. Diane is also the chief editor of Blue Light Press, the publisher of my poetry collection Every Glittering Chimera, a collection inspired by that mythic female monster that tells the story of being a woman in America.

Among my poems in the new issue of the Monterey Poetry Review is one that I wrote last autumn, “Brief Passage,” on a retreat in Asheville, NC. It was a productive time creatively that saw the start of several poems and paintings, some of which I've shared previously on this blog.

Below is a relatively new poem featured in the Monterey Poetry Review.

TRYING TO BE STRONG

First light beams the sky into the room,
marine blue flecked with frilly amber clouds,
The yellow-green of the Umbrella Pine,
Hinoki Cypress molting.
Thick hedge, white Montauk Daisies,
buds flowering along the pebble path.

Botticelli’s Birth of Venus,
a print I bought years ago in Venice,
hangs near my desk.

Later, in waning day,
dusk between the dream out there and now
armed with a notebook and my Fitbit,
I walk the road down to the beach,
imagine Venus emerging from her clamshell,
a quarter mile away in Gardiner’s Bay,
where this strip of skinny land
meets the sea’s portrayal of infinity and beauty,
sparking dainty ruffled whitecaps on the inlet.
Imagine RBG’s white tatted collars
folding and unfolding, mirrored in the froth,
playing in the waning light of sunset’s red reflections.

Click through to read my other poems and the rest of this amazing issue.

A Poem for My Sister

A new poem remembering my sister and a time I painted her portrait.

MODEL

I met you again, darling sister,
in my painting of you that my studio tourists
pulled from the rack today.
The one I painted in those final days,
your stubble hair, Payne’s grey mixed with zinc white,
the flower too close behind you,
white lily, green stems faded to the color of moss,
your left hand cupping your wan and sunken cheek,
eyes, captive tin in the harsh light of your impending death
but wide open with a knowing you could not share.

I’m glad you sat for me,
though it was a shock to see
the women touch the edges of my painting,
and you still hovering in the canvas of my memory mind.

Marilyn Final Days

Déjà Vu, New Poems and Paintings

It’s been a challenging, inspiring, and surprisingly productive spring. I’ve been up in the studio writing and painting in spare moments. The paintings are experiments in layering liquid paint over swatches of color swept across the canvas intuitively and spontaneously. Asheville Dreaming remembers and reimagines the energy of Asheville, NC and the beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Asheville Dreaming

The mythic figure in Chimera seemed to appear as I painted silver paint on the second layer. In Greek mythology the Chimera was a fire-breathing female monster, part lion, part goat, part serpent. The word has also come to mean an illusion. The Chimera, its mythology and image as metaphor haunted my last collection of poems Every Glittering Chimera. Clearly she's still haunting me.

Chimera

One of my poems is featured in the new anthology Stronger Than Fear: Poems of Empowerment, Compassion, and Social Justice edited by Carol Alexander and Stephen Massimilla, alongside poems by Ross Gay, Jane Hirshfield, and Yusef Komunyakaaa. A new poem, “This Shall Never Pass,” appears in the new issue of Pendemics Journal, a publication of the Global Quarantine Museum, coming out at the end of May. The theme for the new issue was déjà vu. A theme that really resonated this spring. You can read my poem below, can read Pendemics Journal here, and can check out the Global Quarantine Museum and the artifacts it holds.

THIS SHALL NEVER PASS

Diego’s rescued pre-Columbian sculptures
saved and silent behind glass
in a pyramid he built.
We stand before preserved forms,
crafted before the birth of Christianity
and we are awed by time.
A pregnant woman, belly protruding, hands wrapped
around her girth, hooded eyes glancing down
at the child she carries.
A warrior in full regalia, hat piled with snakes.
Dancing figures, arms up, legs entwined
and several small clay Siamese twins.

We stare at the work of hands from centuries gone,
tied to us through pigments, a human thread
of earth dug and shaped by ancient artists
whose names were buried long ago.
Diego’s pyramid reminds us
time passes through us
then leaves us in obscurity.

We think about how nothing changes.
Birth and war and dance,
love, hate, the same as always.
A woman and the child she carries,
bombed and bleeding in Ukraine;
one legged boy on crutches
in this museum of antiquities;
a couple nuzzling in a corner.
All of us, a momentary cast of shadows
in the scheme of things.

Tonight the Stars

A new poem inspired by the tragic events unfolding in Ukraine and two new paintings inspired by recent travel to North Carolina.

TONIGHT THE STARS

1.

A million fireflies
animate the constellations:
Orion’s Belt, Southern Cross
Big Dipper, bright white stars
feed me solace.
How small I am. Content,
safe in my cocoon.
Such a close night.
Black sky. Silver sliver moon.

Lying on a chaise,
in this wide courtyard,
cuddled in a furry blanket,
feeling the approach of spring
in this silent east end garden.

Look up.
A hymn of glory above.

2.

This afternoon, heroic President Zelensky
in his green Resistance T-shirt
called upon the world
to help bring back to Ukraine,
silent skies.
His character, his prescience, bravery,
his terrifying words,
warn us if his country burns,
the world will burn.

The video of death,
bodies, towns in ruins.
Carnage in Mariupol, missiles in Lviv,
shelters gutted;
people dumping the slaughtered
into trenches they have dug.
Genocide in beloved country.
They’re murdering babies
in my mother’s birthplace.

Old people, sick ones, expectant mothers.
The crying and the courage.
Trapped, no food, no water,
bombs and fires.
Children. Hundreds of children.
Refugees and injuries,
sudden devastation of all they’ve known.

Just a month ago these victims of insanity
broke bread around their daily table,
abundant food and family, innocence and laughter.
On such a night as this.

You can see Blue Ridge Mountains and other pieces at two upcoming shows at Ashawagh Hall in East Hampton, NY. At Art Groove 2022 on Saturday, April 9th and Sunday, April 10th, and at Mannix Contemporary’s Women's Show 2022 on Saturday, May 7th and Sunday, May 8th.

"Brief Passage," a Poem and New Paintings

I spent part of the fall in Asheville, North Carolina painting, writing, spending time outdoors, and catching up with dear friends. Here are some of the pieces that have sprung from that trip.

Detail from Asheville

Detail from Asheville, 60 x 84”

BRIEF PASSAGE

A single cormorant, feathers spread,
lazes on dark ripples.
A blaze of red and aqua sunlight
bolts through clouds on the horizon.
Halyards ring out evening in the marina
as sailboats sway in
wave-break at the jetty.
Geese fly currents above,
their shapely V dappling the light of moonrise.

I hear myself ask, no-one listening,
how many others have passed
time seated on this bench,
admiring the white windmill across the water,
blades blinking in dusk.

When my wings have flown me
through the portal that unlocks
death’s hidden prize,
will I become the breath of wind
or sister to a seagull perched on a pier?
Will I mingle with rainbow rays
to stir a lonely woman’s imagination
as sun sets on this bench, this bay, this beach,
thinking how fast light yields to dark.

This cove, so quiet on peaceful days,
turbulent when weather whips the shore,
ebbs and flows in rhythm with the moon
will not remember
I spent this solitary moment
holding close its aching beauty.

Asheville, 60 x 84”

Tree of Love, 84 x 60”

"First Light," a New Poem and Paintings

While recuperating I’ve been busy in my studio, writing and making art. Here is a new poem and a glimpse of new paintings. A couple of my paintings will also be featured in upcoming shows. At this summer's Market Art + Design art fair August 12-15 in the karyn mannix contemporary's booth (booth #A07) and at the Springs Historical Society & Community Library exhibition Arts and Archives at Ashawagh Hall August 20-22.

FIRST LIGHT

In this dark room
sun barely filters through
the shadow of regret.
I try to wrest my mind from the drawing
on the wall, a curled and crouching girl
hands cupped to hide her eyes.

Linked numbers pass my window.
One day the chain of days will sever.
I think of my friend, Stephen.
Parkinson’s has robbed him.
He’s decided not to eat,
let death set him free.

A flowering tulip bulb dies back;
becomes a tulip again.
Blue heron does not have to learn
to meditate. He simply fishes on the bay.
They don’t strive to make
their lives more meaningful,
or cry when someone close
says no or leaves.

So many beginnings
I never watered, never mulched,
never nourished enough to grow.
I wonder what will become of
who I thought I was.
when questions end.

This day begins like any other.
Rituals of chores and work,
wishes that the kids would visit or call,
wishes for a beach accompanied by a book,
longing for something too intangible to find,
and time is short to name it.

Spring Signs of New Life

Spring is always a season of hope, when life emerges in a flourish of color and sound. It's a timeless kind of optimism, a familiar procession year in and year out, that begins with green shoots and explodes in the pinks of cherry blossoms and magnolia blooms. Inevitably, we find ways, as spring emerges, to leave behind winter’s dark days. Especially this winter, after a never-ending 2020. Now that many are getting vaccinated, there is another reason for hope and another kind of waking in the world.

Try Putting It Back Together

Try Putting It Back Together

One sign of new life is the return of art shows to the East End. My painting Try Putting It Back Together will appear in "Vito Sisti's Women's Show Revisited" at Ashawagh Hall May 7-9 (with an opening reception on Saturday, May 8th from 5-7 pm) organized by Karyn Mannix Contemporary.

To celebrate the season, National Poetry Month, and new beginnings, here is a poem of spring, published in a slightly different form in South Florida Journal.

EAST END SPRING 2020

A cloud of rolling fog half covers Gardiner’s Island.
Salt spring air gives a tangy shiver,
tart like the sweet melt of dark chocolate.
Along the beachfront

Leyland cypress trees are silent.
The morning world
is sleeping. Our island’s April winds
have vanished. Emerald ferns
unfurl dime-size spiral heads.
Burlap-wrapped bushes, cocooned creatures,

will soon be free. The scrubby shoreline
forest chatters. Chicadees sing dee, chickadee,
new season! Woodpeckers ratchet repetitive
cacophonies. The chorus of mating
spring peepers hidden in wetlands,
swelling sound. Though the virus shadows

like a hungry ghost, nature’s noise
is an invitation. Small wonders catch us
by surprise. These broken lives, nights
wishing for escape, have brought us
here, fears unmasked.

A cardinal flashes
across the road. We stop to see him land.
An influencer indeed,
he draws us in, chooses a cherry branch
thick with blooms. Perfect,
we think. Red bird, pink tree.

Click-through to read this poem and my poem “Passing at a Distance.” Listen to recordings of me reading them and check out the full issue of South Florida Poetry Journal.

New Year, New Art

To say 2020 was a difficult year is an understatement. There has been great loss, sadness, stress, and so many challenges, both global and personal. But in between the doomscrolling and Zoom meetups I had some wonderful moments of art-making—using language to craft a narrative, playing with color, texture, lyric, and shape. To celebrate closing one year and beginning another anew, I thought I would share a few poems and paintings in-progress.

 
Blue

Blue

 

SEEKING

One half hour spent in silence
will be good for my head
and for this thinned-out group,
cool late summer evening in the temple garden.

I lead them in their breath,
reality ephemeral
as the face in the rising moon,
reflected onto theirs.

Jon slouches, looks asleep.
Nan adjusts the tension in her hands.
Maureen taps her feet to some pinging nerve
that has her trapped,
perhaps Ginny's cancer, or Covid
or the president,
or Zoom meetings tomorrow.

I say, Just breathe, stay here,
don’t sink, remain connected, but distanced
from the grounded, grinding outer world.
Observe the flow of breath,
let thoughts roll by,
the simple power to be peaceful.

Death, one day, scoops us away.
Use-by date expired, catapulted back
into the mysterious continuum.
For now the angel of our own inhalations,
exhaled into our private masks, keeps us alive.

They thank me, namaste. I thank them,
watch my thoughts return.
Dinner waiting at home,
quick stop at TJ Maxx,
the comfy pants I hope to find,
criminals pardoned,
people stuck and sick, dying alone,
gasping for breath we take for granted.
How easy to be terrified.

We wait on line, six feet apart,
greeting with our eyes.
No sweats I like at TJ Maxx.
I buy bananas at IGA
for the turtles in my yard.
Head inside
to emerge in safer times.

 
Age Is Only A Number

Age Is Only A Number

 

THAT'S ALL (FOR MY BIRTHDAY)

This stubborn will
does not acknowledge age,
does not want to dim or falter.
A polished actor’s voice
interpreting some page
till dust earmarks the words.

Time wasted,
last coin all but spent,
this wild girl stumbles
on a frayed carpet,
bent corner trips her.
Struggle to stand.
Try again, I tell my body,
don’t let the creak of these old legs
prevent your rising.

I know silver tarnishes,
so I paint myself
new colors, unsuitable for eighty.
Old flesh does not suit makeup,
but desire is always newborn.
Take piano lessons
paint a mural, teach a course,
make use of what is left,
delete 10,000 bytes of junk
while breath continues.
A little wheeze
and the mirror shakes.

I’ve smoked the years,
crashed on boulders,
misplaced the horizon
even though I know that living
brings it closer.

The key is rattling in my pocket.
But the lock has a keyless entry
to another stage where I’ll perform my grand finale.
What to do but keep on treading.
Footprints stagger toward cessation
till I stumble on the gateway
to the parting.

Clockwise from top of easel down: Color Study 1, Color Study 2, Color Study 3

Clockwise from top of easel down: Color Study 1, Color Study 2, Color Study 3

Two Poems in the South Florida Poetry Journal

Two of my poems, “East End Spring 2020“ and “Passing at a Distance,” are featured in the August 2020 issue of the South Florida Poetry Journal.

EAST END SPRING 2020

A cloud of rolling fog half covers Gardiner’s Island. 
Salty spring air fills us with a tangy shiver,    
like tartness in the sweet melt of dark chocolate 
on the tongue. Along the beachfront, 

Leyland cypress trees are silent. The morning world 
is sleeping. Our island’s April winds 
have vanished. A front yard of emerald ferns 
unfurls dime-size spiral heads. 
Burlap wrapped bushes, cocooned creatures,

will soon be free. The scrubby shoreline 
forest chatters. Chicadees sing dee, chickadee, 
new season! Woodpeckers ratchet repetitive 
cacophony. The chorus of mating 
spring peepers hidden in the wetlands, contributes 
piercing screeches to the ensemble’s 

swelling sound. Though the virus shadows 
like a hungry ghost, nature’s noisy party 
is an invitation. Small wonders catch us 
by surprise. Our broken lives, nights 
wishing for escape, have brought us 
here at last, our fears unmasked, 

to taste renewal. A cardinal flashes 
across the road. We stop to see him land. 
An influencer indeed, 
he draws us in, chooses a cherry branch 
thick with blooms. Perfect, 
we think. Red bird, pink tree.

Click-through to read my other poem, listen to recordings of me reading them, and to check out the full issue of South Florida Poetry Journal.

New poem - Contagion

The silver-lining of adverse and trying times is they can be a wellspring for creativity. 2020 has been generous in that regard. Earlier this spring I shared two poems inspired by quarantine and the change of seasons. Here is a new poem I’m working on inspired by our present moment.

CONTAGION

She has to rebuild herself,
a young woman says,
her career in clothing sales, her life.
He lost his job.
Their rent is due.
Death in the arms of bigotry.
Death by the cruelty of leaders,
Death by disease. 130,000, counting
in the America that’s great again.

The traffic jam inside my head
whispers suggestions,
shouts instructions.
Stop watching,
paint your own paintings,
get back to work.
The voices tell me, write your poems.
Run a bath or run away.
Do something.
What will you do?
Bite your finger till it bleeds.

You hear the shouts.
You read the signs.
Take off your velvet shoes.
Walk in someone else’s boots.
March barefoot through the rubble.

Spring and Social Distancing

Garden 5.jpg
garden 1.jpg
garden 2.jpg

Spring has arrived here in the Hamptons. Like everyone I'm hunkered down at home, sad and enraged with our current crisis and the news, hopeful and inspired with all the budding, blossoming, and birdsong that comes with the start of the season.

Here, beyond my window, crocuses and hyacinths have begun to bloom, yellows, purples, pushing through the earth, the robin in the courtyard. We planted Amaryllis yesterday. I dug, barehanded till the bed was deep enough. The ground was soft at last, and cold, and like the robin, I found a worm and quickly buried him to keep him safe. Now, how can we keep ourselves safe?

Not for a moment, out there in the warming sun, fog lifting off the bay, did I remember my own sweet, short time here or worry that I may not see the blooms of summer.

Here are two poems I've written recently, "Earth's Justice" and "Awakening":

EARTH JUSTICE

The uninvited guest whose name is fear,
(we’ve met before,)
shoves its mighty weight, its heavy fists
through the cracked and insubstantial door.
We try in vain to bolt the windows.
The interloper muscles up, sneaks in,
feeding on the panic of its helpless minions.

We feel abandoned by the light.
Inside this rampant spin cycle,
too fast to unpack truth,
the flashing pictures are a hazy jumble,
no way to clarify the colors.
It’s all a blur, a reeling warning,
bound to envelop us as darkness falls.

Outside the air is wet and sweet
with April’s promise.
Purple and yellow crocuses peek through.
Though there is so much dying,
budding scrub oaks are alive with bird song.
First daffodils, and cheerful pansy faces,
indifferent to our plight, assure us spring survives.
We tell each other we’re still here.

AWAKENING

The fog has lifted from the morning beach.
This veil of gloom hangs heavy.
Laughter has vanished into disappearing light.

Italians sing to be together, songs and arias
from lonely terraces.
Voices vanish, one by one,
as Rome becomes an aftermath.

Mother earth, our nurturer,
weeds out her human children.
Perhaps she’ll push again
to birth a kinder family.

At dawn, for a moment,
this epidemic isn’t real.
Then day comes rushing back
with outbreak news.

We meet our friends on Zoom and FaceTime.
Our screens divide us into pixels,
No hug, no touch. Strange comfort.
We keep our breath, dangerous,
in danger, contagious and afraid,
from spilling on each other.

Making Art with Jackson Pollock

Jackson Pollock, the great American abstract expressionist painter, lived and painted just down the road from Art House. His work and his presence, like the natural beauty of Springs and the Hamptons itself, continuously inspires me. Moves me to play with process, color, form, and language. When I stated on my new project, a pairing of vibrant colorful paintings with vivid poetry, I couldn’t help buy think of Pollock. Here’s one pairing from the book in progress.

Making Art with Jackson Pollock

Art arises.
Belly, heart, throat, head.
And then inches above me,
hovers—
Teases me into her realm of play.

A universe emerges
from sticks and brushes.
Jars and tubes of glowing paints
draw me into conversation
with my muse, her insistent voice
a way of letting me through
a secret gateway.

My tools, my muse,
and Pollock’s proximity
in harmony, tame chaos,
outpour into and through me.
I am conjoined with the maker
as my hands dance, persuing entry.
I am flying into a place
that is not me.
I am making
with the maker.

Canvas conjoins with
arms, wrists, body,
Voices of light and color
merge with my breath.

This is where I live and paint
one mile from Pollock’s home
on Accabonac Creek,
his barn floor splattered
with what is left of his imaginings,
his spirit alive in the trees
along Springs Fireplace Road.

pollock art.jpg

Pushcart Nomination

My editor at Blue Light Press, publisher of my new poetry collection Every Glittering Chimera, informed me this week that my poem "Becoming" has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize!

The Pushcart Prize, the venerable literary prize, celebrates the best poetry, fiction, and essays published by literary journals and small presses. Editors from these venues nominate what they think is the best out of what they have published. What an honor to be included!

My poem "Becoming" originally appeared the issue 3 of Parentheses: International Journal of Literary Art, alongside my paintings Inle Lake Montage and Water of Life. The poem is also included in “The Chimera's Kylix,” the meditative and philosophic final section of my book Every Glittering Chimera.

BECOMING

Snowy owl will be your disguise
when you escape this cage.
You will be grateful you were once alive
though many died and you grew solitary.
A torn black band tied to your wing
kept you from flight. But now,
it’s time to leave your perch.

...Read the full poem here.

EGC+cover.jpg

Marion Anticipating

A new poem I’ve been working on.

MARION ANTICIPATING

After the fall, flat on her face,
tripped by a rough spot
on the old linoleum,

she has lost her will,
meaning abandoned, speech garbled,
cell upon cell resigning to failure.

The pocked whiteness of her skin,
blanches pallid as chalk,
thin as transparent vellum. 

She sleeps, mouth open,
arms crossed at her chest,
arranged to enter a  realm
we among the mostly living
cannot see. Not yet.

Lying on her back,
her lips form an O.

The dream we inhabit together
is disappearing, but,
for now, both of us present,
the dream keeps dreaming.

I walk up close, tip-toe.
Is she breathing?
So still on the sofa,
mumbling, incoherent conversation
with her long-passed husband.